Spit Shining Shit
Last night I tossed and turned for a few hours before getting up and swallowing two Xanax with the last of the shitty blended whiskey I had. This is sort of how things have been going lately, ever since Andrea’s wedding. When I finally woke up, cold and shivering because my broke ass landlord hasn’t fixed my fucking radiator yet, I got up, got dressed in yesterday’s pants and a clean-ish shirt, and dragged my comforter into the living room.
We had talked about running away, Andrea and I, and going somewhere warm. Leaving behind Chicago and making our way as waiters or bartenders or back alley prostitutes or whatever. Somewhere like Bali or something. The Virgin Islands. My breath blossomed in front of me in a cloud, flowing with the draft from the windows out over the table. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. This was the second Monday this month that I had just not gone into work, not called. Anthony usually covered for me, said I called in sick, but after this weekend who knows if he’d do that again. I put my feet up on the coffee table, kicking off a few cans so they crashed together on the carpet. The hangover started to creep up between my eyes, and I wondered if I’d ever be ok.
The Slowest Drink at the Saddest Bar on the Snowiest Day in the Greatest City
I showered so that I could feel like I had done something productive, which sort of put me back into the motions. I made coffee, drank too much of it, tried to flush it out with water, ate some bread and butter, took a shit, and got dressed, pulling on my coat and hat and lacing up boots and finding a scarf and grabbing gloves and all the other winter shit. It had started to snow outside, which made walking harder, my head pounding more with each step, four o’clock now and pretty much black outside. Thud, thud, thud… like the bass from the speakers at Andrea’s wedding.
A month ago on Friday, Anthony had made sure that I got to the airport, that I got up on time—or close to it—and was on the BART to SFO with enough time to push past people on the way through security. The whole time he was in my hotel room, shoving my clothes into bags, he didn’t say a word. He didn’t look mad, which was fine. Good, even. Because it’s not like he was the fucking bride or anything. But he pushed me out of the room, pointed towards the train and said “There,” and that was it. Anthony’s a big guy, thick, like an old football player who drank too much in college (which is pretty much exactly who he was), so even when he doesn’t raise his voice, even if he just sounds stern, you say “Yes, sir.” On the train, I popped two Addies to be awake enough to suffer through a five hour flight. Then I took two more since I only had two left and figured it’d be easier to get through security without loose pills in my pockets. Oakland to San Fran took forever, the train stopping constantly, and my heart started beating faster before I got off, my whole body tingling. I was alert, focused, and mostly just stoned. But it helped me not think too much about what had happened.
A few snow covered blocks down the way was Cal’s. This dirty Rogers Park dive bar that served dollar cans of High Life, which, with my job on the line, was about all I could afford. Cal’s is usually pretty empty, and even when it’s not, it isn’t the type of place people wanted to chat. Inside, I grabbed a beer, took it to the corner booth by the pool table, and started working on drowning out the past weekend.
Them Angels Been Talkin’
By nine o’clock I had sunken in pretty deep. I was comfortable in the booth, and I had been ordering enough that the bartender didn’t look worried about how long I had been sitting there. I had a burger delivered, I had ran next door to the gas station and grabbed a coffee to wash down a few Addies to stay awake. The bar filled up a little, but stayed pretty calm, no one talking, a quite Monday night. Or at least it would be in the bar. It was winter break, and the college kids who didn’t go back home would be partying, loud music everywhere, drunk frat bros fighting.
Still, I was running low on cash, and if I didn’t get to my couch soon, the beer and the uppers I had been popping would combine into something fierce and I didn’t want to be in public for that. I could probably rail a crushed up Ambien and drift off, call off tomorrow with the flu, say I was too sick to do it today, maybe went to the hospital, pretend that it was the swine flu—I’d always been a fucking pig anyway. I got up, threw an extra few bucks towards the bar, and stumbled out the door.
In the parking lot next to the bar there was a crowd growing. A few Loyola University kids, a couple of neighborhood bangers, a handful of the bar patrons who had been out smoking a cigarette, all crowding closer to see some gross dude puking. Normally, this wouldn’t be too interesting of a scene, but there was something special about the way this guy puked only on his crotch. He was leaning up against a parked Toyota, chin to chest, puke bouncing off his pants and out in front of him into a crude dick shape. Two amorphous blobs on his thighs, a long trail in front. Hilarious. Some girlfriend of some frat bro pulled his arm. “I’m going to be sick,” she said, but he just laughed her off and pulled out a phone to snap a photo. I wondered if I had ever been crowd worthy. It only took about three seconds to remember the wedding.
Demons
At my shitty apartment there was a note on the counter—Couldn’t fix heat. Here’s a space heater scribble on a torn piece of yellow legal pad paper. It was better inside, though. I went to my desk and fished out an Ambien, crushed it between two note cards, and put it up my nose. Ten, fifteen minutes tops and I’d be all but laid out. I sat on the couch, put my feet up on the coffee table and waited. First the body goes numb. Check. Then, holding off sleep and feeling the mixture of beer and speed and sleeping pills, the brain starts to fire randomly. Normally, I’d start hallucinating, watching shiny orange and purple shapes dance across the room, but not now. Now I was sitting there, watching a third person view of Andrea’s wedding.
It started off like wedding’s do, with the invitations sent out, talking about the union between Ms. Andrea Walsh and Mr. Who Gives a Shit. And for a while, I couldn’t figure out why she had sent me one at all. We had dated for years, talked about getting hitched, but then, well, things happened and that was it. We stayed friends like people lie about doing, but I hadn’t seen her in almost a year. I don’t know why I decided to go. Maybe because of Brian. We’d all been close and since I saw him every day, he’d badger me about going with him. When we got there, I popped some pills, brought the flask into the church and got down to business.
At the reception I could feel myself losing my grip. Brian kept asking “Dude, you ok?” and I would try to slur back at him.
“I’m fi. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look so hot, maybe you should go back to the hotel.”
But of course I didn’t. At some point the Maid of Honor and the Best Man gave their speeches, and the microphone started heading around for all of the aunts and uncles to say how proud they were. Brian got up to use the bathroom, and as he left, the microphone landed in my hands.
“Ok. Alright,” I started, standing up and swinging around a beer bottle as I spoke. “I’ve got some things I want to say. Andrea, I’m glad you’re happy.” As I talked, I could watch her face fall from the glow she had. Her jaw set, like she was bracing for a punch in the stomach. “But, you! You, mister fuck whatever. You can go fuck yourself. Andrea and I used to fuck. And date. But we fucked a lot. And there’s nothing, and I mean nothing, you can do to her that I didn’t already do. Wherever you put your dick, my dick has already been. You remember that time.” and that’s when I blacked out. Judging by the pounding knot I had on the back of my head, I guess someone, probably Andrea’s dad, decided to make me stop talking.
Inside my apartment, the drugs all ebbed away for a second. Just a second. And I felt like I should probably apologize. Like maybe they would appreciate my acknowledging that I fucked up. And as I started for the phone, ready to call at almost eleven on a Monday, I felt everything below my waist turn to jelly and I collapsed back on the couch. Tomorrow, if I remembered, I would be sure to call them. Until then…
The Redness in the West
The next morning, I packed a bag. A few pairs of underwear, the other pair of jeans I owned, some shirts. I had two addies and a Xanax left so I tossed them both back and drank from the tap. I had just about a grand in my bank account, which was enough for a plane ticket. I’d done a great job of fucking things up in Chicago, and there wasn’t much left for me to figure out. I’d call my landlord and tell them to find someone else to rent the place, that no heat meant I could break my lease. That he could deal with all the shit that was in there. I’d do that later, though, in case I changed my mind between my apartment and O’Hare. I’d call Brian too, tell him to give Andrea a message for me. Something about being sorry, or feeling like shit. Or maybe I would just tell him that he had been a decent friend to me. Because I’m sure she didn’t want to hear from me. Who would?
On the train, and then the bus, and then the train, I wondered if it still worked like in the movies. If I could just walk up to the ticket counter and say “One ticket to Bali” and have that be it. I held my backpack strap tighter. I was ready to disappear.
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